


Bacchi Extasim

by Altus_Schmaltus



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bacchanalia, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Tevinter, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-16 18:10:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3497918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altus_Schmaltus/pseuds/Altus_Schmaltus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After coming of age, Dorian Pavus receives an invitation to his first Bacchanalia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another kink meme fill, but this one will be multichapter. 
> 
> _Dorian partaking in a bacchanalia along other hedonist and bored nobles, indulging in every pleasure and vice from opium to blood-magic._
> 
> Well, it got a little out of hand from there. Dorian is sixteen and has passed his Harrowing and, now considered a man according to Tevinter custom, he is invited to a Bacchanalia for the first time. Please brace for feelings, character development, and Tevinter culture. Please also brace for raucous orgying and despoiling. 
> 
> Also thanks times a million for my incredible beta [originally](http://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/) who single-handedly made this chapter acceptable.

***

 

The Temple approach was fecund and green, the winding path made treacherous by broken paving and the darkening sky. Ruffled paeonias and plump lilacs lined the way, their perfume sweet and heady. The three of them – Dorian, his mare, and the elven servant that escorted them – navigated the path carefully, and Dorian gradually became aware of coarser smells creeping in beneath the flowers: wine, incense, smoke.

            “Has it started already?” Dorian asked, leaning down on the horse, pressing his feet into the stirrups to keep balance.

 The name of the elf was Ehrin, and he was dearly beloved to Dorian, trusted. Ehrin walked alongside, guiding the mare by her bridle.

            “People arrive all day and night,” Ehrin told him, “depending.”

            “Depending on what?”

            “On who they know.”

 Dorian supposed that was fair. A newly-minted Altusmage, Dorian had never been invited to participate in the Rites before; the Bacchanalia festival was very exclusive, so he understood, and entry was by invitation only. The evening was stifling, the very height of Summer, and the humidity bordered on oppressive even for Dorian in his soft red robes, his long gloves, his tall, elegant boots. He certainly felt over-dressed. He wore his hood up to keep the setting sun off his face, but it hardly helped with the heat. Ordinarily, he’d have scorned any form of sojourning in favor of his father’s cool, dark library and a pitcher of water mixed with ice and sliced lemons, but he couldn’t miss the festival.

 His first Bacchanalia. Another rite of passage.

            “Are we late or on time?”

            “Neither,” Ehrin said. “The Rites will not begin properly until after sundown. The drinking will have, though.”

            “Oh dear,” Dorian said pleasantly, with a smile and a certain adolescent worldliness. “What if they’ve drunk all the good wine?”

 Ehrin scoffed. “They won’t have,” he reassured.

 Dorian’s curiosity consumed him. At sixteen years, he was no longer a boy in the eyes of his elders; he had passed his Harrowing a month previously and he carried his new status with pride. Everything about him, from his clothes to his jewelry, from the slick black of his hair to his brushed chestnut mare with her gleaming tack, was both exquisitely refined and far too new. He looked like a freshly-painted statue, over-bright.

 The Bacchanalia, Dorian had read, was a cultural hold-over from the time of the Old Gods. Still celebrated in the ancient Temple, Dorian knew that there was a feast and a celebration, and that there were nocturnal Rites of some sort… and he was no wiser than that. The whole affair was dreadfully secretive, and despite his best efforts to rustle up the information, neither book nor teacher nor friend would furnish it. The temptation of participation, of discovery, had a glamour that Dorian could not resist.

 And if he happened across any blood magic… well, he was sure nobody would threaten _him_. No matter what happened at the festival, the Magisterium would still convene on time tomorrow, after all.

 The great edifice of the Temple rose above them. From the bottom of the hill it had looked almost quaint, long and low and squat but up close, the sheer scale of it took Dorian’s breath away. The fluted columns were so old that barely a flake of the original paint remained, and the bared marble looked soft as chalk. Clearly the columns were strong enough, though; they supported a portico that Dorian struggled to make out in the gloaming. The scene depicted looked positively wild, from what he could see.

 A stable-boy came for the horse and Ehrin took Dorian’s hand to help the boy dismount, brand-new bootheels clicking on the flagstones with satisfying panache.

            “How old is this Temple, Ehrin?” Dorian asked, sotto voce. The sun was creeping below the tree-line now, silhouetting the cypresses and the poplars as it set behind the Temple. It plunged their side into premature night while the far side was still drenched with sunlight.

            “As old as anything in Tevinter,” the elf replied. “Old enough.”

 They started toward the enormous steps that rose up between the columns and receded into shadow, and Dorian was gripped with a powerful trepidation that tightened around his chest, his throat. He thought, madly, of turning back, of snubbing the coveted invitation and never coming to this ancient place with its overgrown trail and mossy colonnade ever again.

 Absurd and embarrassing. Some son of a Magister Dorian was, afraid of shadows.

 He walked smartly up the steps, Ehrin following his lead, between the columns and into the gloom.

 

***

 

 Dorian had had a great deal of time to imagine what the Bacchanalia might be like; he pictured everything from the pomp of a Chantry procession or an extravagant and wine-soaked vesper at a noble’s villa, to the formidable ceremonies performed on High Days at the Magisterium. He had partaken amply of all of these things, but none of them quite prepared him for the scene that greeted his eyes as the vast doors of the Temple opened and he and Ehrin were ushered inside.

 The interior of the Temple was not an open space, as Dorian had expected. The Magisterium with its many tiers of arches supporting the outer walls felt spacious, airy, compared to this place, which was a veritable forest of columns. And yet the interior was vast, as big as the Forum in Minrathous, Dorian was sure. Fluttering silks had been strung up between the columns, enormous drapes of every color as far as the eye could see, each two-hundred feet in length at least, obscuring most of the place from view.

 Dorian wasn’t sure he needed to see more.

 Silks, couches, pillows, strewn about the room. Full handfuls of incense burned on copper platters, low tables groaning with food, wine flowing freely amongst the devotees from great silver vats. And the noise! Screams, laughter, hysterics, the crash of drums and cymbals loud enough to rattle the teeth. The air was soupy with smoke, but Dorian could clearly decipher the tableau laid out before him: here, a man, an elf on each knee—were they men or women? Dorian couldn’t tell—and there, a woman, her arms held by companions on either side, a man beneath her of absolutely indeterminate age, and Dorian would have guessed that they were copulating in the ordinary sense if it hadn’t been for the other girl whose face was buried between her spread legs…

 Dorian looked away, drawing close to Ehrin, mortified.

            “Ehrin,” he said, his voice unsteady. “Is this… to be expected?”

 The elf patted his arm. “Don’t fret, Putus Pavus. Nothing is obligatory here, except the wine.”

 Dorian knew the words were meant in comfort, but they stung him nonetheless. _Putus_. Dorian’s father was _Dominus_ , always his father, and with no land and no property to his personal name Dorian couldn’t rightly expect anything more than _young man_ from any of his father’s servants. Ehrin had seen him grow from a tiny babe, but Dorian wanted to scream— _but I passed the test!_ —I’m not a child!

 And yet he clung to his escort like a lost little boy.

 Perhaps it was just the extravagance, then, the lavish silks, the gold, the ancient and solemn marble. Too much, too similar, too soon – a gross mockery of his Harrowing, of his dream palace to which he would never return.

  _Iridescent bronze skin over hard muscle, hands spread in smiling invitation, tail swishing behind. Hello, little Pavus – did you come for me?_

 Dorian shivered. Silly, shameful, to turn from this when he had already borne witness to all the adultery, indulgence, bribery and murder that the Magisters could fit into an evening’s party, when he had already given himself to a Demon and returned victorious from the Fade. What did he have to fear?

  _Pride, Envy, Desire, Despair – Dorian had been well-taught, but the Demon was an exquisite temptation and he could not resist whetting his appetite, not when the beautiful creature so obviously desired to touch him. Too flattering, too appealing, and Dorian ached to taste and to touch, to know the hard curves of that bare chest, to feel those broad hands on him, in him. The Demon was beautiful and this part of the Harrowing was for Dorian alone, and if Dorian wanted to learn something new here, such as a kiss or an intimate touch, who could stop him? If the demon is Desire, Gereon Alexius had told him, it might appear as a beautiful woman or a handsome man, and it will try to tempt you with its body – but even his teacher had not prepared him for the way the Demon truly ensnared him. What jutted up between those copper-brushed thighs made Dorian’s body **sing** , that much was undeniable, but the kiss to the cheek, the sigh of his name, the gentle whisper of amatus and bellus and te amo, Dorian, te amo –_

 Dorian clenched his teeth. He had been very thoroughly schooled by the Demon in the Fade, and yet he had still returned whole to the Magisterium and left the Demon’s body torn asunder, blood trickling down Dorian’s staff to drip on the floor of the Sanctum even as he flourished a bow to the assembly.  

 No, Dorian was not a child any more.

            “I’ll drink, and I’ll look,” Dorian said, whether as a warning to Ehrin or a promise to himself, he wasn’t sure. “But nothing more.”

            “Sabazius was a God of wine and of ecstasy,” said Ehrin. “The Rites only require that you drink; after that, you may do as you please.”

            “How do you know all this?” Dorian asked, feeling suddenly put out; nobody had been willing to tell him anything about the purpose of the Bacchanalia until now.

 Ehrin only smiled. “Experience,” he said simply, “and your father.”

 Naturally, Dorian sneered to himself. Who else?

 Dorian walked with his chin lifted, his jaw set. His eyes never returned twice to the debauched Ladies; the wanton Lords, on the other hand, he schooled his eyes away from altogether. He would not be caught gawping like some excitable schoolboy. If Dorian had any beauty at all, it was to be looked at, desired, but never offered first. And he was desired, he knew it, whether he turned the head of a young man with his hand up a lady’s skirt or drew the attention of a smoker away from the slender pipe and the lazy curl of smoke, Dorian was watched by those around him. And he felt confident. He felt powerful. 

 Ehrin filled a fired clay cup with wine and held it out to him. Such a plain little cup, Dorian thought; and for such an extravagant salon, at that. In his moment of hesitation, he became aware of a great many eyes on him, bated, anticipating. Did he look that young, that green? Was it so obvious to all these strangers that he had never been here before, despite his best efforts to appear uninterested, unimpressed? Dorian felt hot anger spark in his belly.

 He lifted the goblet and drank.


	2. Chapter 2

Dorian was not entirely certain how he came to be here.

It was the wine, he thought – it had to have been the wine. He recalled refilling that little clay cup, again and again, everyone eager to ply him with more as soon as it began to run dry. It was morbid, the way everyone drank here. And now Dorian was sullenly and desperately drunk and his lips were stained dark, sweet and sticky.

He remembered all of that. But what wasn’t clear to him was how he had ended up on this nest of cushions, sequestered away behind rippling walls of colored silk, sprawled on his side with crushed red velvet beneath his cheek.

There was a gentleman beside him whose name Dorian did not know, sprawled with equal languor on the cushions; he puffed on a long, slender pipe, plucked it from between his lips and pressed it into Dorian’s hand. Dorian lifted sluggish eyes to the man’s face and raised the pipe to his own lips. A lazy flick of the fingers to light the pipe with a flash of magical fire, and Dorian’s eyes lingered all the while on the fine lines of his companion’s face, on the delightfully lazy curl of the man’s lips when he smiled. This man, Dorian thought, had all the qualities of the smoke that curled up from between his own lips as he exhaled, rich and dark and alluring.

The name for what they were smoking was lachryma papaveris, and all Dorian knew of it was that his father did not permit it at house parties. So naturally, he wanted to try it, and unsurprisingly people seemed to have it in abundance here. It was black and sticky, and smoked in tiny quantities from the end of a needle. There was a kind of ritual about the whole thing – needlessly dramatic in Dorian’s opinion – but the resulting smoke was like the breath of angels. Dorian ascended. He was weightless, ephemeral, as though his whole body were composed of nothing but water vapor and the solid quality of his skin was merely an illusion. He wanted to laugh for the sake of it, he wanted to sleep for all eternity, he wanted to be kissed.

He stretched on the cushions, aware of his companion’s eyes on him, on his lithe body all wrapped up in crimson silks and dark leathers.

            “Oh,” he breathed, smoke wreathing around his face. “It’s _good_.”

His lovely companion smiled blissfully, and moved closer to him.

            “I told you,” he said, reaching up to the copper platter sitting beside the nest of cushions and producing an orange. He peeled it with long, firm fingers. Dorian wasn’t even sure he could feel his own fingers any more. The man’s skin was the color of fine whiskey. Dorian wondered if it would burn on his tongue in the same way.

Then those fingers pressed a segment of orange to Dorian’s mouth, rubbing the translucent fruit across Dorian’s lips, and Dorian parted them to accept. Somewhere beyond the curtain, a man screamed; it seemed distant, nothing to be concerned about. The drumbeat had become a part of Dorian’s body now, his pulse, the beat of his heart; the cymbals were a cacophonic wave that bore him along.

He bit into the orange, and the cool, sharp juice that flooded his mouth was like pure light. Dorian closed his eyes, beatific, serene. He _smiled_.

Another mouthful of sweet, fragrant smoke, and then more fingers pushing past his lips. Dorian was receptive, kept his teeth to himself. This time, however, it was not cool orange on his tongue but something dark and dusty; Dorian bit down with a crunch and tasted chocolate. Rich, nutty-sweet, coffee-bitter. Dorian rolled the taste around his mouth, and rewarded his companion with a soft moan of appreciation. 

Time seemed to swell and crest with the pounding drums, and Dorian was not sure how long they lay there together, feeding each other mouthfuls of smoke and little bites of dainty and decadent food. Dorian, opening his eyes, plucked a cocoa nib from the dish, the little morsels leafed with flecks of silver. He slipped it between his companion’s lips, soft and warm, inviting. Cocoa powder and crumbs of silver clung to his skin like moth-dust as he withdrew. When the older boy’s fingers pressed into his mouth in return, Dorian relieved them of the chocolate with a twist of the tongue and then sucked, licking the silver leaf and the bitter powder from warm, strong fingertips, one by one.

The moan this drew from his companion’s lips kindled a fire in Dorian’s belly.

He expected the fingers to be withdrawn but they weren’t; they were only pushed deeper into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue, and Dorian’s eyelashes fluttered. He had never considered his tongue as especially sensitive but that pressure of soft, blunt fingertips did something exquisite to him, exquisite and dreadful. Dorian’s cock stiffened as his tongue was rubbed, slowly back and forth, up and down.

He’d thought the Fade had schooled him. He was realizing now that it had merely whetted his appetite; not even the palace of a Desire Demon could conjure up half the extravagances of Old Tevinter worship, and Dorian wanted to try it all. The lachryma made him honest, indulgent, and bold; made him close his eyes and moan like a wanton around the other man’s thick fingertips, made him long for more. He felt greedy, empty, hungry.

He surged against his companion’s body, pressing close, holding nothing back. The fingers left his mouth, smeared saliva across his lips, his cheek. Dorian groaned.

            “You’re finally awake, then,” said the man, laughing softly. His voice was deep, rich. “Awake enough to want it. You were smoking asleep for a long time.”

            “I was sleeping?”

            “Not asleep; but the lachryma makes you drift.” The man’s voice was like a roll of thunder, a low and primal rumble, threatening a storm. “You were floating.”

Yes, floating seemed right. Dorian felt lips and stubble against his throat, too intimate, so sensitive, and he threw his head back and groaned. If there was to be a storm, he wanted to be mortified by the lightning.

            “But you want it now.”

            “I want—I want…”

The man smelled of wine, of incense, of sweat – a masculine, powerful smell that made Dorian’s head spin. Where was Ehrin? His escort had abandoned him and Dorian could not remember why. Had he sent him away?

            “Wait,” Dorian blurted, and the man stopped. Oh, the kisses to his neck had felt so wonderful, but clarity was returning now and Dorian was remembering his vow, back when he had been put off and embarrassed by the carnality of the festival. That time felt like an age ago now. “Wait, I… I want to watch…”

His needy and eager body protested, but Dorian wanted to stick to his word. Drink and watch. That was all he had to do.

The man sat up, running a hand through glossy black hair, shaved and velvety on one side, soft strands falling over his ear on the other.  Fashionable. His eyes were exquisitely bright with kohl and even in the low light Dorian could see a hint of silver on his eyelids. Dorian’s throat felt tight. Had he ever seen such a beautiful man before? He wasn’t so naïve that he didn’t think the wine and the lachryma were influencing his judgment, but perhaps in the same way that the quality of the sunlight could strike one as merely enjoyable one day and achingly beautiful on another, this man was striking him just the right way.

Either way, Dorian felt he’d found someone he wanted more than the Demon. His eyes roamed over that lovely amber skin, those exquisitely sculpted cheekbones – not so far above him in age, he thought, and so soft, so real, so giving. The fantasy of shimmering bronze skin and hard, bulging muscle was all very well, but this man was _real_ , and still so beautiful, and the way his eyes warmed and softened when he looked at Dorian was worth a thousand sordid Fade-fantasies.

“You want to watch me?” he chuckled. “You eager little satyr…”

Breathlessly, Dorian nodded.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t for the man to pull his robes half-off, baring little patches of skin, golden rope and black leather pressing against him where the silk beneath was pushed aside. It wasn’t for him to spread his legs, boots planted firmly on the ground, and pull his erection free from his smallclothes, tossing his head back and stroking up, down, once, twice, _slowly_ , the fingers that had been in Dorian’s mouth now sliding into his own.

Dorian sat, transfixed, and slid one hand down to palm himself through his clothing.  

He wasn’t sure how long it went on. All he could do was stare with a dry mouth at that flushed, straining erection, so much bigger than his own, at the firm hard working over that darkened, swollen flesh. Dorian squirmed, rubbing the heel of his hand against himself, too aware of himself to actually put his hand inside his clothing to touch.

            “This is the first time you’ve been to a Bacchanalia, isn’t it?” the man asked him, and Dorian bit his lip.

            “Yes,” Dorian murmured.

            “And all you want to do is watch?”  A soft laugh, and a gasp as his fingers played over some especially wonderful spot. “You don’t want to touch?”

Dorian exhaled raggedly.

            “You can suck it if you want.”

Oh, _Maker_. Dorian closed his eyes for a moment, and willed himself not to come in his smallclothes.

            “You don’t have to be shy,” the man continued, his voice growing strained now. “You think I behave like this on any other day of the year? Tonight is for pleasure, nothing more or less. Hence the wine. Drunkenness is an excuse for everything, and everyone is equally implicated, so… even respectable men like me can pleasure ourselves in public for a lover whose name we don’t know, and never hear of it again.”

Dorian wished he didn’t find that confident cynicism so appealing, so enjoyable. He wished the man were less beautiful, worse company.

            “What _is_ your name?” Dorian asked.

            “Rilienus,” his companion replied. “And yourself?”

            “I’m Dorian.” How surreal, to introduce oneself at this late stage without so much as a bow. Rilienus’ strong hand slid up, fingers teasing the head of his cock before sliding back down. He wasn’t even trying to come, just savoring the pleasure.

            “Well, Dorian,” said Rilienus. “If you’re just here to watch, do you want to see more?”

Dorian felt infatuated, intoxicated more by this man than by wine and lachryma combined. All he could do was nod.

 


End file.
